by Bob Finley
"Meaning what?" Janese wanted to know.
"First, I think this volcano is waking up. And fast."
"And second?" Bill Layton played the straight man.
"And second," Frank sighed, again looking toward the ceiling and squinting against the air-borne debris, "it won't take many shocks like that last one to rupture that plug over our heads. And I don't want to be here when either one of them happens."
"So, you're saying that either the volcano is going to erupt, or the roof is going to collapse?" Janese's voice had risen an octave.
"Or both."
"And so we could be..."
"Boiled, crushed, drowned...all of the above, and then some."
There was an oppressive silence for long moments.
"Okay," Marc finally said. There was decision in his voice. "If we're gonna die if we do, or die if we don't, then I'd rather do the choosing than leave it up to Old Man Fate."
"I'd say the choices are a little on the slim side right now, wouldn't you?" Bill Layton observed.
"Yeah, but..."
"Marc...Marc!"
They turned as one to see Cy running toward them. When he saw that they had noticed him, he stopped, motioned for them to follow, and jogged back the way he had come, turning to make sure they were following.
"Look! Up there!" he panted when they caught up with him. They all followed his pointing arm. Through the smoke that hung in a thin layer near the ceiling from the exploding lights and gunfire, they could just make out black-clad figures on the landing outside the penthouse door.
"Who is that?! " Janese exclaimed.
Justin watched carefully as first one, then another stood on the railing and shinnied up what must have been a rope hanging down from the ceiling structure.
"That's either the cavalry...or the end of the world," Marc mused aloud in a strangely subdued voice. Four faces turned toward him, each in various stages of alarm, but none in comprehension.
"The TRAP team!" Bill Layton was the first to understand.
"Could be," Marc agreed. "If so, they didn't waste any time getting here."
"Then we're rescued?! " Frank stammered.
"Not necessarily," Marc replied.
"But, I thought..." Frank was stopped by Bill's hand on his arm.
"We're not the reason they're here," Layton reminded him.
"Yeah, but..."
"They're here to get the bad guys, Frank. The best thing we can do is stay out of their way!"
"We've got to stay together," Janese Cramerton said, grabbing the nearest two of the group by their arms. "They're bound to realize that we're not the ones they're after!"
"Good idea, Janese," Marc agreed. "Go find a safe place and hide until this is over! Keep your heads down!" He turned and would have been gone but for Frank's grip on his sleeve.
"Where are you going?" he demanded, fear rampant on his face.
"I've got to find a way to get to Jambou up there before they do," Justin explained hastily, nodding in the direction of the catwalk high above. "If they kill him, his heart stops, and that bomb upstairs explodes! And so do all the rest of the ones he's planted everywhere else!"
"No! They might shoot you!" Layton objected.
"Could be worse..." Marc observed. When he saw no comprehension, he said, "...we could be nuked or boiled alive, instead." He chuckled aloud at the looks on their faces. "Hey, I'll be careful, okay? In the meantime, ya'll get under cover."
"How're you going to get up there?" Cy asked him incredulously.
"I don't know yet. But there's bound to be a way."
"Marc, wait!" Janese interrupted. "There's a chance..." She closed the gap between them and raised her face to look him flush in the eyes. "Remember when I climbed the wall to put Kim's gadget up there?"
He nodded.
"Well, after I topped out, I had to find a place to hide until I could get back down to the lower level without anyone seeing me."
"Yeah? And?" he prodded impatiently, mindful of the TRAP team's slow but sure progress.
She sensed his mood and hurried on. "First I saw a bunch of computers, in the first room I came to. Then, I got to what looked like some kind of maintenance room. While I was looking around for a place to hide, I found a hole in the floor, behind some of the machinery. On the right side of the room as you go in. A big hole. So, I...well, I climbed down it. I followed the...what I guess was the sewage line. I think it probably goes all the down to the cave where Frank and I went exploring earlier."
"You think?"
"Yeah, 'cause I didn't go all the way down there."
"Does this have something to do with my getting up to where Jambou is? 'Cause, if it doesn't..."
"Yes, it does! That's what I'm trying to tell you! Part way down, I saw a little hole, kind of a little tunnel. And I crawled in it. There was a piece of what-do-you-call-it...plywood? So I kicked it and it fell out, and I was in the crew's quarters, where we sleep! It was part of the bathroom wall."
He looked at her with a frown for a moment. "Are you saying I can get into a tunnel from the toilet, and climb up another tunnel to the level above, where Jambou is?"
"Yeah. It's only about a twenty foot climb up a chimney!"
"Well," he glanced toward the distant ceiling, "it looks like our best shot. Maybe our only one. Okay, I've gotta move! Stay out of trouble." He smiled crookedly. She impulsively reached out and gently laid her open hand along the side of his face.
"Be careful."
"I don't have to be careful," he smirked evilly. "I've been fixed."
Before she could react, he was gone, running from one point of cover to another. She lost sight of him briefly, then glimpsed him dashing up the curving stone stairs and disappearing into the tunnel leading to Dodge City.
"Janese." It was Bill Clayton. She turned. "Let's find a fox hole," he said, holding out a hand toward her. They hurried back to the group and set out to find somewhere safe. If there was such a place. The feeling of impending doom hung so thickly in the air around them it seemed to tease their senses, hanging out there just at the very edge of their peripheral vision, there but not there. They scurried along like creatures of the night, lest the sun's rising expose them to mortal peril. They were right about the peril part.
Chapter 87
Sergeant Major Paul Banner had come close to killing everybody in sight when Kim Matsumoto had made a fool of him by drawing fire from Leo right into their midst and then getting away. He still didn't know how the little punk had managed to do it, but do it he had. He couldn't forget, first the shock of fear he'd felt when he realized that the killing blast from Leo that was supposed to fry the skinny troublemaker was somehow about to be redirected at him, and then the humiliation of having been so stunned by the violence of the electrical lightning bolt that he'd been able to do nothing but lie there like a ragdoll while his intended victim made good his escape.
His rage dizzied him to the extent that he hadn't even been able to think straight. The volley of fire that his men had loosed had been weak and half-hearted, merely thrown in the general direction of the scurrying fugitive instead of focused and effective. He'd accused them of conspiracy, of actually letting the prisoner get away on purpose. Had even grabbed the nearest soldier by his shirtfront, snatched his big .45 from its holster, and shoved the muzzle under the terrified man's chin, threatening to kill him for insubordination. There had been several tense moments before his Corporal of the Guard had intervened, soothing, persuading, during which even Banner himself wasn't sure what the outcome would be. Finally he slapped the man across the face with the heavy weapon and poured curses on them like boiling oil from the castle ramparts. Cowering, they withered before him until the force of his wrath finally abated. When it did, he stood before them, chest heaving, teeth clenched, thin-lipped. When at length he spoke, it was to spit orders at them. Orders to disperse and find Kim Matsumoto, wherever he was hiding. And to bring him to him. Alive. So he could personally kill him. And to give th
em incentive, he assured them that anyone who returned unsuccessfully would be executed on the spot. In thirty seconds there wasn't a guard in sight.
He stalked across the cavern and down a short hallway. Unlocking a heavy door, he went inside, flipping a light on as he did. Crossing the room, he kicked a chair around and flopped down into it. Taking a key off his belt, he had to try twice to insert it in the lower right-hand drawer, his hand was shaking so badly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so angry. Jerking the drawer open, he pulled out a glass and a bottle half-full of an amber liquid. Unscrewing the cap, he hesitated a moment with the lip of the bottle on the rim of the glass before roughly shoving the glass aside and putting the neck of the bottle to his lips. He drank greedily and long, finally pulling the bottle from his lips with an explosive gasp. He slammed the bottle down on the desk and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he leaned back and put his boots up on the desk, crossing one leg over the other. He ran his hands over his face, massaging his temples first, and then digging his knuckles into his tired eyes. Finally, he picked up the bottle again, but only drew it to him and absently rested it in his lap. He stared at the far wall, slack-faced, not moving.
"What now?" he thought. "This job's comin' apart faster'n I can keep it glued together."
He thought back to the time he'd agreed to take on this assignment. He'd begun to realize that his mercenary days were numbered...he could feel it when he got out of bed every morning. All he needed was one good score and he'd be able to disappear into obscurity. To live out what was left of his life in a backwoods cabin in the bayou swamp country, with nobody looking to slit his throat some dark night in a muddy, mosquito-infested trench, or in some forsaken wasteland of a nameless desert. He sighed. Just one big score.
And then had come this smooth-talkin’, smooth-headed con-man from out of nowhere, makin’ promises for the big pay-off. Just one year. That's all. Just a year. And then a quarter million dollars for his trouble. And, of course, his ‘expertise’ and his ‘command qualities’ that were what made his talents so valuable and hard to find.
And he'd bought it. He knew better, really. Nothing in this world comes easy. But a quarter million! His need and his greed must have been so obvious! But he'd bought in anyway. The others had been promised fifty thousand for their year's tour of duty. Even at that price, he'd been able to hire nothing but scum and low-lifes. And, if they'd known where they were going to end up, probably none of them would have agreed to it, anyway. But...they were in it now, almost six months into it. Halfway.
He took another long pull on the bottle and his thoughts turned to the events of the last few days. When he and the wharf rats he'd been able to recruit on short notice had boarded that ocean-going tug in Algiers, none of them had any idea what was coming. That, after hours of diesel fumes and the almost constant sounds of retching along the rails, they would then be entombed six at a time in minisubs that were more like floating coffins that bobbed perilously on the huge swells. And then to have discovered that their duty station was inside a mountain, beneath the ocean...he'd had his first opportunity to prove he could handle this motley crew by bullying them into submission when they almost mutinied dockside.
He had to admit, though, that once they got settled in, things weren't so bad. The food was good. Entertainment was okay, considering there were no women and no liberty. And the work itself was easy. Until...
The arrival of the VIKING and its crew was a complete surprise. Old Skinhead hadn't said a word to anybody...except that gofer of his, that weasel Breton, of course...about any prisoners. All they'd been told was that they were to be bodyguards to some rich eccentric, and that the money was good.
"And now, here we are, accomplices to kidnapping...international blackmail...terrorism...and mass murder. And who's going to believe that we had nothing to do with it? We're here...we're totin' guns...we got every navy in this part of the world out there on our front doorstep! If there was any way of desertin', I'd probably be the only one still here! And I ain't sure about that!"
He half-lifted the bottle again. Stopped. Swirled the liquid casually around. And set it back on the desk, slowly screwing the cap on.
"If I had a way out of here..."
Abruptly he swung his legs to the floor with a thump. "But I don't," he said aloud to himself, sighing heavily. Oh, he'd heard through the grapevine about all those diamonds Jambou had stashed away up there in that penthouse of his. He'd even shown them, they said, to that woman with the sub crew.
"Fine lookin' woman, at that. Wonder if...?"
He snorted. After five months cooped up here, any woman 'd look good!
He didn't like the way things were going, not at all. This mess of bringin’ in hostages was bad enough. Then that fool went and turned the whole world against them by blowing up some burgh down in Africa! What an idiot!! It was almost like he was tryin' to see how far he could push people. Just so he could...what? Feel powerful? Have somebody he could bully around? It couldn't be money, not if he had all those diamonds up there that he was braggin' about. Was it just what he said, on the T.V.? Gettin' even? He thought about that. And realized, for the first time, just how precarious his own situation was. Anybody who'd kill...however many they'd said it was on the news...wouldn't bat an eye about killin' him. Or any of his men. And that made him mad. Real mad.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a glassed cabinet. Leaning toward it, he looked more closely. Did he look older? Tired? Yeah, that for sure.
"Well, old friend," he said quietly to his image, "just be sure that you get him before he gets you!" He smiled. "And be sure you get some of that loot of his, too!" The smile faded. This was serious stuff. He had a premonition of disaster...of plans gone wrong. He was a planner. An organizer. He hated it when things went wrong.
He locked the bottle back in the drawer and, out of character, but from some dark foreboding, eased the pistol out of its holster and checked the clip. He had the feeling he was going to have to be more careful in the future. To look out for Number One. He slid the weapon back in its cradle and snapped the flap in place.
He'd just locked the door and emerged from the hallway when he heard the unusual sound overhead...like someone running. On the catwalk! That couldn't be anyone but...
He moved out into the cavern for a better look. Jambou! And...running?! ! Then there was a blur of motion and shouting on the landing outside the penthouse door. When the Uzi roared from across the cavern, he instinctively dived and rolled for cover. He'd heard the sound before. And it was never, ever followed by anything good.
Proof of this tired axiom of his came true just a couple of minutes later when everything in sight began to sway. Then the floor started to visibly undulate and deep, thumping shockwaves coursed through his whole body, where he lay prone beneath a handy mechanic’s A-frame that he hoped would protect him from overhead debris. A melon sized chunk of rock crashed to the hard stone floor just a dozen feet from where he lay and fragmented like a bomb. Fearfully, he shot a look toward the ceiling...the ceiling that, according to one of the prisoners, might fall in on them any second, bringing thousands of tons of rock crashing down on their heads, followed seconds later by millions of tons of sea water. Crushed or drowned. Some choice. Dead is dead.
He was still staring at the ceiling plug when enough of the dust suspended high in the air parted for him to know that there were people up there. They were dressed in black and hard to see. But there were people up there! And they were climbing along like monkeys in the ceiling superstructure! It looked like they were headed across the cavern toward the computer center.
It hit him. Hard, like an unexpected fist in his stomach. The gunfire. The men up...commandos! They were an assault force! They had to be that bunch that Justin had been raving about. The ones they were all supposed to be scared of ‘cause they took no prisoners. And now they were here, just like he'd said.
"Ho
w'd he know? And, how'd they get in here?!"
He stood rooted to the spot, thinking furiously. A wolf pack of killers loose in the ceiling. Jambou on the run...to where? And this blasted mountain threatening to come down on their heads.
His survival instincts went into high gear. With a flash of insight, he reasoned that if the TRAP team had got in through the penthouse, Jambou must have had some kind of backdoor escape that nobody knew about. That would figure for the sneaky snake. But now, Jambou was in full retreat, away from the penthouse. And the soldiers up above were chasing him, also away from the penthouse. Where the diamonds were. And where the backdoor was? And that cork in the ceiling couldn't hold out too much longer.
He made his decision. Only one thing was missing to make it all possible. He looked around. And just as he did, not thirty feet away, he saw the back of Janese Cramerton's head pop up for a look around.
His lips pulled back from his teeth in what roughly resembled a smile.
"It ain't over 'til it's over," he breathed aloud. And he began to move, cat-like, in the unsuspecting woman's direction, skillfully using whatever cover presented itself.
Chapter 88
She had no idea there was anyone around but the four of them until a huge hand was slapped roughly over her mouth, two fingers simultaneously clamping her nostrils shut, and she was jerked upwards and backwards. In the space of the two or three seconds it took for her to work through the shock and try to yell, whatever had her had easily covered twenty feet and dodged behind cover. Struggling, she first tried to see one of the others and yell to them, but everything happened so fast there was only a blur of scenery. Then, in panic, she realized that not only could she not cry out for help, she also couldn't breathe. Janese clawed at the hand and forearm, but couldn't budge it because her feet weren't even touching the floor.
Dark tunnel. Rough wall. Slammed with a jolt to her feet, but a hot, sweaty body in full contact along the entire length of her own trembling backside. The rough voice so close to her right ear startled her, coarse and urgent.